


The Things We Do

by Medie



Category: Highlander, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-25
Updated: 2010-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos absolutely does <i>not</i> jump, but not for the first time does he think mortals - like cats - should be belled</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things We Do

**Author's Note:**

> Written from a prompt by [](http://gryphonrhi.livejournal.com/profile)[**gryphonrhi**](http://gryphonrhi.livejournal.com/) for the Advent Drabble meme. (only a day behind! Go me!) Prompt was John Winchester with Duncan or Methos and the holy spring from the dark quickening arc. All I can say? You try writing a fic about John Winchester and a certain 5000 yr old drama queen just HAS to horn in on the fun.

It seems to Methos that, in his old age, he's gotten far too agreeable. Shrinking into his coat in an effort to ward off the cold, he can't help grumbling, "Killed men for less than this." And not that long ago, relatively speaking.

He huffs a breath, puffing the floppy hair that's Adam Pierson's trademark away from his eyes. He's developing a certain fondness for the retiring young Watcher persona he's adopted, but it does have its drawbacks.

Waiting at six am outside a French bus station in the freezing cold? Certainly one of them.

"Bloody Dawson," he mutters. "Help out an old friend, he says. I'll owe you one, he says." Methos shivers a little. "Owe me bloody well more than one."

"Aren't we cheerful this morning," a voice rumbles behind him.

Methos absolutely does _not_ jump, but not for the first time does he think Mortals - like cats - should be belled. He turns, refusing to give John Winchester, for that's who this must be, the satisfaction of a reaction. "We," he says with absolute aplomb, "have been up to an ungodly hour of the morning attempting to wring a translation out of a piss-poor quality artifact."

A hint of amusement flickers through eyes too old to be mortal. John Winchester is a man that's seen too much. It makes Methos nervous. Men like this see and know things that most mortals would never dream of.

Now his irritation with Joe takes on a new edge. One he regrettably cannot address, not without telling Joe a truth he'd really rather avoid.

Winchester smiles, but Methos spots the wariness. He shifts his weight and feels the comforting bulk of his sword bump against him. "Come on then," he says, turning away. "We've got a drive ahead of us and the roads are shit."

The things an Immortal does for his friends...

*

Fitting into the car is easier said than done, but John manages. He folds himself into the passenger's side seat and looks at the driver. Pierson's a young man, looking every inch the starving academic, but something's not quite right.

It's the eyes, he decides. Hunting, he's met his fair share of college students and professors. Research makes 'em a necessity, but not many of them had eyes like Pierson's. There was an antique dealer in New York and a police detective in Atlanta, both of them young men with eyes much older. It made him nervous then, makes him nervous now.

John shifts his leg, bumping it against the dashboard, and feels the familiar bulk of his gun. It's a reassurance to have it back. He trusts Dawson's word, known the man too long not to, but his trust only goes so far. "Exactly how long a drive we got?"

Pierson shrugs, puttering around. He moves books into the backseat, fixes his seat, fixes the mirror, checks the radio. "Long enough asking won't make it go faster." He looks up. "Might want to consider a nap. Take care of that jet lag."

With a tight smile, John shakes his head. "I'm fine." He could use the sleep, his body worn out and aching after the long flight. This is the first time in years he's ventured outside the U.S. and the travel's catching up with him hard. "Just get going."

"You don't seem to be the type that'd be interested in a sacred spring," Pierson says.

"And what type would that be?" John asks in an amused drawl. It's not the first time he's been underestimated, won't be the last, but it amuses him just the same.

Pierson isn't flustered. Most people would be. "Yours," he says starting the car.

John nods, accepting the evasion for now. "Just a personal hobby of mine," he says. "Got into it when I was in the Corps."

Pierson looks at him, disbelieving. John curses in his head. He's a better liar than this. Maybe that nap wouldn't've been such a bad idea. "Oh yes, a lot of academic study went on in Vietnam, I'm sure."

He almost asks how Pierson knows that, but thinks better. Aside from the obvious, there's Dawson to consider. He doesn't doubt Joe shared some of it. He's got a feeling as tight-lipped as Watchers can be with outsiders, among their own they're as chatty as a Sunday afternoon social. "You'd be surprised," he says.

Pierson smiles. John doesn't much like that smile. He likes Pierson's answer even less. "No I wouldn't."

*

He does fall asleep somewhere along the line, waking up irritated when Pierson parks the car. "We hike from here," the young man says, as if John hadn't just woken up.

"How far?" John asks, getting out. The winter air is brisk and bracing. He smothers a yawn and stretches a little. His hand touches the knife sheathed at his back

Pierson shrugs and grins. "When you fall in, we're there."

Looking at him, John understands that smirk on Joe's face when he said Pierson's name.

He's going to shoot that man.

*

John almost does fall into it. It's typical: the spring he's spent years looking for is a glorified hole in the ground.

Leaning against a tree, Pierson gestures magnanimously at it. "Your holy spring, monsieur," he says, smirking. "Have at it."

"You're sure this is the right spot?" John asks, unwinding his rope.

"Quite," Pierson says. "The Chronicles were quite clear on the matter." He looks annoyed. "I'd hardly go through all this trouble just to take you to a fake. If I were going to do that, I'd've found something a touch more interesting than that," he nods at the hole. "Now, I'd suggest you get moving. Time's a-wastin'."

John grins. "Oh relax, Pierson, your books've been around for a few thousand years. They can wait a couple hours."

He disappears down through the hole before Pierson can say anything.

*

For a holy spring it doesn't look like much, but it doesn't have to. John bends down, filling a mason jar full. "It just has to work."

*

Pouring up a bowl of soup, he puts it in front of his son. "Eat up, Sammy," he says, ruffling the little boy's hair. "And drink your water."

If it doesn't, John doesn't know what he'll do.


End file.
